By Jim Harrison
“Jim Harrison has probed the breadth of human appetites--for foods and drinks, for paintings, for intercourse, for violence and, most importantly, for the nice dual engines of affection and dying. probably no American author greater appreciates these myriad drives; because the ebook of his first choice of poetry . . . Harrison has turn into their poet laureate.”--Salon.com
In Jim Harrison’s new publication of poems, birds and people speak, biographies are fluid, and unknown gods flutter simply out of sight. In terrains actual and imagined--from distant canyons and nameless thickets within the American West to mystery basements in global battle II Europe--Harrison calls his readers to reside absolutely in a global the place “Death steals every little thing other than our stories.” In seek of Small Gods is an pressing and imaginitive book--one jam-packed with “the spore of the gods.”
Maybe the matter is that I acquired concerned with the incorrect crowd of gods whilst i used to be seven. before everything they weren’t destructive and in simple terms confirmed themselves as fish, birds, specifically herons and loons, turtles, a bobcat and a small undergo, yet no longer deer and rabbits who basically provided themselves as foodstuff. and perhaps I spent an excessive amount of time contained in the water of lakes and rivers. Underwater gave the impression of the most secure church i'll visit . . .
Jim Harrison is the writer of thirty books of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, together with Legends of the Fall and Shape of the Journey. A long-time resident of Michigan, he now lives in Montana and Arizona.
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Extra info for In Search of Small Gods
I can't tell you how it labors with its grilled storefronts, air rushing over the facts of diamonds, appliances, the trick carnations. But you already know that. T h e M-16 Vinnie sent - piece by piece - from Vietnam is right where you left it the day you skipped town with the usherette of the Paradise Triple-X Theater. You liked the way she played her flashlight down those rows of men, plaster angels flanked around that screen. Sometimes you'd go fire rounds over the landfill, said it felt better than crystal meth, a hit that leaves a trail of neon, ether.
We'd graduated that year, called the city ours, a real bed of Garden State roses. I've drawn x's over our eyes in the snapshot Vinnie took commencement night, a line of x's over our linked hands. T h e quartet onstage behind us sang a cappella - four brothers from Springfield Ave. spinning in sequined tuxedos, palms outstretched to the crowd, the Latin girls from Ironbound shimmering in the brief conflagration of their beauty, before the kids, before the welfare motels, corridors of cries and exhalations.
Each day I learn more of the miraculous. 's, her gin hallucinations. T h e willow on the lawn is bare, almost flagrant in the wind off Baltimore harbor. She wants me to brush her hair Some mornings I'd hear her sing to herself numbers she knew by heart from nightclubs on the waterfront circuit. I wondered if she watched herself dissolve in the mirror as shadows flickered, then whispering gathered. Floating up the airshaft her hoarse contralto broke over "I Should Care," "Unforgettable," and in that voice everything she remembered - the passage from man to man, a sequence of hands undressing her, letting her fall like the falling syllables of rain she loves, of steam, those trains and ships that leave.